Bad Nights
by CamsthiSky
Summary: When a rough night gets to be too much, and he doesn't want to go home, Dick decides to crash at the nearest safe house in order to treat his injuries and get his head on straight. Of course it's just his luck that there's already a little brother there. And it looks like his bad night is about to get worse. Day 4 of batfam week


Dick was pissed.

And not in the _someone made me angry and I'm gonna go pound a punching bag until it's dust_ kind of pissed. More like _if I don't scream my lungs out I will explode_ kind of pissed. It almost felt like frustration tinged with bright spots of righteous anger. The sort of feelings he liked to keep bottled up until he could take them out on criminals. He _hated_ feeling like this.

But the scariest part was what was hiding underneath the anger.

He let out a strangled yell, punching—and _denting_ —a light pole as he staggered out of the alley. The metal bent upon impact with his gloved fist, and Dick didn't even feel the least bit sorry. Served the stupid light pole right.

Dick's breathing was ragged, like he'd just run a mile in a minute. He _hadn't_ , but he _had_ just watched a kid practically kill herself, Dick not fast enough to save her, even if she hadn't wanted to be saved.

He didn't know the girl's backstory. He knew nothing about her before she'd fallen to her death, other than that she'd looked scared. Whatever kind of shit the universe was trying pull on him, Dick didn't want any part of it.

So, he stared at a dented light pole and tried not to think of the girl's dead body, looking too much like _theirs_ did all those years ago, but it wasn't that easy. It never was.

It took him a few moments to realize, but his hand was throbbing fiercely. Must have broken it, or something. And it was his good hand, too. He was going to have to explain that to Alfred when he showed up at the Cave, and with the state his head was in, nothing good was going to come of that conversation.

Bruce and Damian would probably be there, too. It was late enough that they'd probably be getting back from patrol within a few hours, and Dick really didn't want to deal with the pity Bruce would be exuding in waves. _God,_ what could he even say to Damian. A thirteen-year-old kid didn't deserve to deal with Dick's issues.

After staring at the light pole a moment or two longer and realizing that he really couldn't face anybody at the Manor tonight—and besides, he didn't really trust himself on a motorcycle at the moment—Dick turned towards the nearest safe house (it was actually more of an apartment. Bruce had them all over the city for them). A broken hand wasn't urgent enough that he _had_ to have it treated _right at this very second_. It could wait a couple hours until he got his head on straight.

He switched his grapple gun to his left hand and fired, letting it pull him up the rooftop. He traveled a few blocks like that, barely even registering where he was going, getting lost in the pull and swing of his actions.

He landed on the ledge jutting out from the window of the safe house and took a deep breath. This anger wasn't going to help anything. Right now he needed to get some ice for his hand, grab a couple hours of sleep, and make it back to the manor before breakfast.

Dick slid open the window and crawled through.

Funnily enough, he wasn't alone.

"Dick?" Tim asked from the couch, eyes wide with surprise and something else. Dick didn't know, and tonight wasn't the best time to figure it out. Tim looked about ready to rush to his side.

Dick sighed but the deep breath he'd taken before had done wonders for his anger and frustration, not to mention the sight of his little brother lounging on the couch. He always had an easier time controlling his temper when one of his family members was near.

"Hey, Timmy." His voice was a bit hoarse, maybe because of the pent-up emotions from before, but Tim didn't comment on it. It was disturbingly easy to push the negative emotions to the side and bring out a smile as he peeled off his domino mask. "What brings you to this part of the neighborhood?"

Tim rolled his eyes—already dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. Probably staying the night, then—and relaxed back into the couch. "I'm waiting for Jason to finish up patrol so we can go over the plan for tomorrow night."

Dick raised his eyebrows as he walked to the wall-less kitchen. Ice, first. "So soon?"

"Yeah," Tim sighed. "We found out Marconi is picking up another shipment of drugs tomorrow night and the best time to catch him is during the act."

Tim and Jason were working a case, Dick remembered. Some guy, Marconi, was going crazy with bringing in shipments of new drugs and dealing them out to anybody who'd take it for crazy cheap prices. Drug use had almost doubled in the past month, and Tim and Jason (who didn't want the dealers to start targeting any kids) had agreed to work together to bust the guy.

They worked pretty well together, all things considered.

"Just be careful," Dick said as he opened the freezer and grabbed the first ice wrap he could find.

His hand was throbbing now, and it wasn't pleasant. He pulled his glove off with his teeth and used his left hand to carefully wind the wrap around his hand. Dick grimaced. His knuckles and fingers were a mix of purple and black. He had used a lot more force than he'd thought was possible. Maybe he'd give Leslie a call before he went to sleep just to see what she thought.

"I will," Tim said, but sounded distracted and distant, like he wasn't quite focused on the conversation anymore. Once Dick had the wrap settled on just right, he turned back to the living room, catching Tim's eyes. "What happened?"

Dick looked down at his hand. "I, uh, got in a fight with a light pole."

"Is it broken?"

"I think so," Dick told him as he settled down next to him. "But I don't think anything needs to be reset, so I decided to stay here for the night. Is it alright if I crash your guy's party?"

Tim shrugged, gesturing for Dick's hand. Dick held it out and Tim held it gingerly, checking that the wrap was on correctly. "Jason probably won't be happy but when is he ever?"

Dick laughed, but it sounded sort of hollow and strangled, and that self-loathing, that frustration, along with the images of that girl dead on the street, almost came rushing up to swallow him again. He barely managed to push it down, but something must have shown on his face, because Tim was staring at him.

Dick's smile fell. "What?"

"Why'd you punch a light pole?"

"Would you believe me if I said the guy I was trying to punch moved out of the way?"

"You put enough force into your swing to break your hand on some guy's face?" Tim asked, the disbelief written all over his face. "I don't really buy it."

"Buy what?" Jason asked as he crawled through the window, his helmet under one arm. He straightened up, only scowling when he caught sight of Dick sitting on the couch nursing his broken hand wrapped in ice. "What is _he_ doing here? I thought we had an agreement."

"It's not like I specifically asked him to come," Tim shot back. "He's hurt. He came here to get ice and crash. That's part of the reason B even got these apartments."

"Whatever." Jason swept past them into the kitchen, dropping the helmet onto the coffee table, and Dick couldn't help but slump.

Sometimes he hated this, especially on nights like this. It didn't used to be this way. The hardest nights Dick used to have were spent wrapped up in a blanket in front of the fire, Bruce curled around him and Alfred serving hot chocolate. He used to be able to be however weak he wanted to be, all without consequence.

Now his hard nights were spent away from the manor, away from his family, even if it wasn't by his own doing.

Bruce kept his distance. Ever since Jason had died, something within the man had shattered, and he hardly let anyone get close enough to him to _talk_ let alone hug. Dick could never ask Bruce to hold him when he was feeling weak. Not anymore.

Jason had come back to life a completely different person, but it wasn't like Dick had tried to get to know little Jason while he was Robin, too angry at Bruce, at the world to even try. And it wasn't like Dick could go to Jason when he was struggling with his own head. Jason practically wanted nothing to do with him.

Cass always welcomed him, especially on the hard days. She seemed to get it, even without Dick saying anything, and she would wrap him up in a hug, not saying anything. It was always enough to put a smile on his face, but Cass wasn't always there anymore. When she was there, Dick wasn't. When Dick was there, Cass wasn't.

Tim was harder. Tim had never been the most comfortable when it came to talking about emotions or dealing out physical comfort, and Dick didn't blame him in the least. The kid tried, but the way his life had been so far, Dick didn't like dishing out his problems for Tim to see.

Damian was a hard one. Just like Dick had a hard time seeing Bruce break down, he had this ridiculous notion—and he _knew_ it was ridiculous—that Damian looked up to him too much. Dick didn't want to shatter that image, and he always had a hard time trying to be anything but strong around the kid.

Alfred. Dick could always go to Alfred. The man always seemed ready to lend an ear and offer a few words of advice, and Dick was grateful, but there was this sense of being a burden.

(Which was ridiculous, but Dick had already proven time and time again that he did things whether they were silly notions or not.)

"So?" Tim prompted, shaking Dick from his own head. "Are you actually going to spill the beans or are you going to spew more crap at me?"

"Dickiebird's lying to you?" Jason asked, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and peeling off his domino mask. He raised an eyebrow at Dick and plopped down in front of them, sitting on the coffee table like he owned it. "About what?"

"He said he punched a light pole."

"Did he _lie_ about punching a light pole?"

"He lied about why," Tim said, his mouth set in a frown.

"I was angry," he said, decidedly not looking at the two of them. "It was stupid, and I'm going to get it checked out in the morning."

Jason snorted. "You're damn right it was stupid."

"Dick, why—?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

The images were still right there, right at the edge of his memory, waiting to be called back. He didn't want to see them again. His stomach rolled at the thought, and he clapped his good hand—still gloved—over his mouth.

"Dick?" Tim asked. The couch groaned as Tim sat up, placing a light hand on his shoulder. "Dick, what's wrong?"

Dick didn't answer, though. Instead he lurched up off the couch and sprinted towards the bathroom, only making it in time to shove the door open and slide down in front of the toilet. The moment he took his hand away from his mouth he retched into the bowl, his stomach heaving.

He couldn't stop them. The girl's body splayed out on the ground, limbs twisted in ways that couldn't possibly leave her alive as the blood pooled beneath her coincided with the memories of his parents' deaths, their bodies twisted in much the same way, and Dick couldn't push them back anymore.

It was agony. He should have told someone about the lines. He should have grabbed the girl before she had let go. He should have done a lot of things, and they had both fallen because he'd been too slow to save them.

He'd reached out to her, ready to help her back onto the roof she'd been thrown off by Cliché Villain #3 of the night. The guy had taken her hostage, thrown her off the roof to make his escape, and she'd managed to grab the railing. Which would have been great if she hadn't looked at his outstretched hand with distrust and then _let go_.

Dick had dived after her immediately. Only—he hadn't made it in time. He had to watch her body hit the ground. He barely managed to save himself

Dick had called the police, explained what happened to Commissioner Gordon when he showed up, and then had left, the Commissioner's gaze following him sadly.

And now here Dick was, his memories colliding as he spat into the toilet, his stomach finally settling some. He hated himself, he was having another bad night, and he was breaking down. The tears were silently rolling down his cheek and all Dick could do was lay down a cheek against the cool porcelain and try to get his breathing under controlled.

"Dick?" someone asked, and Dick startled slightly. He'd forgotten where he was for a minute, and he looked up to see Tim crouching next to him. "Dick, are you okay?"

"Got the thermometer," Jason said before Dick could even open his mouth, sliding into the room. His domino mask was missing now, and he looked tired and worried, and honestly? Dick wasn't sure how to handle that.

Tim took the thermometer and turned to Dick. "I'm going to take your temperature," Tim told him, and it was like he was treating a cornered animal. He was treating Dick like glass, and Dick hated everything about it. "Open your mouth."

Dick pushed himself upright, leaning against the bathtub, and he let Tim stick the thermometer under his tongue. He wasn't sick, he didn't have a fever, and Tim probably knew that, but they both played along, and after a few minutes, the thermometer proved it.

"Is it the flu?" Jason asked as Tim checked it. "I swear, Dick, if I catch the flu, I'm going to kill you. That's not an idle threat."

"It's not the flu." Tim frowned at Dick. "Are you going to throw up again?"

Dick shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. "No, I'm okay."

Tim didn't look like he believed him, but he dropped it. "Let's get you to the couch, then."

Jason didn't look happy about it, but he and Tim maneuvered Dick into a standing position and half-carried him to the couch. Dick slumped onto the sofa the moment he was able to, sinking into the cushions.

"What was that about?" Jason asked as he settled onto the coffee table. Tim had disappeared between one blink and the next, but Jason kept his voice low, so Dick assumed that Tim was still somewhere around the apartment.

"I'm having a bad night," Dick sighed, his eyes fluttering closed.

"That was more than a bad night," Jason told him, his voice serious. "That was—That was something else."

The images flashed before his eyes again and Dick had to force himself to take a deep breath as he opened his eyes again. The ceiling would have to do. He wasn't going to be able to close his eyes without seeing her body. Not tonight.

"I watched someone die tonight," Dick admitted. He didn't know why. Jason was here, he seemed to be offering for the first time since before he had died, and Dick wasn't sure how to wriggle out of this. "I was right there, but I was too slow. She fell to her death."

Spoken aloud, the images seemed to cement into reality, and Dick shot up against the sudden tightness in his chest. He couldn't breathe, and reached out blindly for something— _someone_ —to ground him. His parents, Jason, this girl—who next? Who else was going to be taken from Dick? Who was he going to lose because he was just—just _too slow?_

"Dick," Jason was saying, gripping Dick's arms tightly, and Dick gripped them back, hanging onto them like a lifeline. "Dick, look at me."

"I tried to save her." Dick was rambling now, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them, but he just felt so messed up inside. "I _swear_ , but she wouldn't take my hand. Just as I was going to grab her, she slipped. And then she was dead." Dick wrestled his arms from Jason's grasp to pull at his hair. "Why is it that every time I turn around, someone else is _dead?!"_

Jason was in his face again, pulling gently at Dick's hands, trying to untangle his fingers from his hair. "Take it easy, Bigbird," Jason murmured, and he sounded really concerned now. "You're going to hurt yourself if you keep that up." Then he twisted towards the bedrooms in the apartment and shouted, "Tim! Tim get in here!"

"What?" Tim asked, scrambling through the bedroom door and into the living room as Dick struggled to calm his breathing. "What's wrong?"

Bad night. It was just a bad night, and if Bruce were still willing to snuggle up with him on a couch in front of the fire, then maybe it wouldn't have gotten this bad. Dick should have found some other way to calm himself down instead of breaking down right in front of Tim and Jason.

"I think he's having a panic attack," Jason said. Dick heaved for breath. Tim came closer, and Jason stayed where he was, speaking to Dick this time, "Take a breath, Dickiebird. You're going to pass out if you keep it up."

Dick rode out the panic attack, Tim and Jason sitting there next to him murmuring calm reassurances, and eventually, Dick felt okay enough to let his shoulders drop and fall back against the arm rest.

"I'm okay," he whispered when Tim hovered and Jason back away. "Seriously. It's just been a hard night."

Tim swallowed visibly. "Yeah, maybe say something next time, okay? I'm always here for you."

Jason didn't say anything, but his eyes were hard as he stared at Dick, and Dick couldn't help but glance between his two little brothers and sigh. "Okay. Next time, I'll come straight to you, alright?"

Dick spent the rest of the night with his little brothers, and even though he didn't sleep a wink, even though the panic attack was gone and the images weren't, Dick felt at home enough in the apartment with Jason and Tim that the bad night turned into an okay morning.


End file.
